IthacaLit

then a reeling of white nets on black waterhooking across the entire breadth of sky

sinking and surfacingundulate as light on a lake

phones ringdoors openneighbors stumbling in the dark

now the nearestgolden belliedwith city light

the furthesta fist of stars

Skinning

This evening, I separated a Whitetail deer from its skin with a knife similar to onefound in a museum by a friend, who has lived alone for fifty years.

Short slices of movement called to mind his voice - because it was made, because it was used - each word a small strike of breath.

He could not remember whether wood or bone, but tears filled his eyes when hetold me about the handle, still fastened to the stone one thousand years later.

Gabriel Furshong writes Missoula, MT, where he works for the Montana Wilderness Association. His reporting and essays have been published in High Country News, Montana Quarterly, Earth Island Journal, and the Cobalt Review, among other publications. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the anthology I Go To The Ruined Place (Lost Horse Press), the CutBank Literary Magazine, the Cossack Review and Drunk Monkeys.